


in damp earth my body

by mellish



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Childhood Friends, Complicated Relationships, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, M/M, Pining, Post-University Timeline, Retirement, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23840845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellish/pseuds/mellish
Summary: Onscreen, the nation’s favorite setter has arranged himself so that he’s bowing, forehead pressed to the court, like he’s thanking everyone for their kindness thus far, like he’s asking for forgiveness. Hajime thinks: shit, it’s really happening.The one where Oikawa retires and shows up at Hajime's place, and neither of them knows what happens next. Futurefic.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 28
Kudos: 290





	in damp earth my body

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings for depression; it's only a subtle part of the story, but I wanted to flag it.

Hajime sees the match on television—catches the tail end, rushing home after a client meeting. It hurts to watch: the cheering, the absolutely amazing final rally, the way his best friend is immediately smothered by his team, tears running down everyone’s faces. Oikawa cries so hard his knees hit the court, a display of raw sorrow that probably looks like euphoria. Hajime nearly forgets to breathe; he has to take a sip of beer to steady his nerves. Onscreen, the nation’s favorite setter has arranged himself so that he’s bowing, forehead pressed to the court, like he’s thanking everyone for their kindness thus far, like he’s asking for forgiveness. Hajime thinks: _shit, it’s really happening._

The next day every sports outlet has picked up news of Oikawa Tooru’s retirement. Most of them have the same picture: Oikawa red-eyed, a bead of sweat perfectly suspended on his chin, looking flushed and gorgeous as he holds his medal up to the light. Hajime spends every spare moment that day staring at the image on his phone, dazed; it’s only when Mari-chan from across him clears her throat and taps on his desk that he remembers it’s time to go in for the weekly planning session with Engineering. He feels listless, like he’s waiting for something. He keeps picking up his phone and thinking of sending a message, but he isn’t sure what to say.

A week later Oikawa is loitering outside his door, wearing a hoodie and a health mask. There’s a foreboding duffel bag on his arm. When he sees Hajime he tugs the mask down and breaks into a giant grin. 

“Iwa-chan! Oh my god, it’s been forever!”

“You—” Hajime swivels his head around reflexively.

“Don’t worry, I snuck away from the paparazzi early this morning. I’m sure no one’s followed me here.” His tone gets marginally less bright, and he scuffs one foot across the floor, like a little kid. “Hey, Iwa-chan. I don’t want to be inconvenient, but remember back in middle school, when—”

“Yeah, I remember.” Hajime suddenly feels like crying, even if he has no right to. He opens his door, grateful that his hand still knows what to do with a key, because his mind is moving as if through sludge. “Come on in.” 

“Thanks, I—thank you.” 

Hajime steps inside, takes his shoes off, suddenly self-conscious about his place even if he shouldn’t be. It’s not Oikawa’s first time here, either, but it’s been a while. It’s nothing like Oikawa’s beautiful two-bedroom in Roppongi Hills, abandoned while its owner travels to this or that game. Oikawa once half-jokingly invited Hajime to go live in it for a while, since he was never home and it needed looking after. The free rent was tempting, but the space wouldn’t be his, and more than that, Hajime has his pride. In the end, Hajime convinced Oikawa to get an occasional cleaner instead. Besides, he likes his own place. It’s much more his style: no frills, no flourishes, but it has all the essentials and everything’s in order. It is also, very clearly, a space for just one person, but they know each other well enough that they can probably make this work…for a while. 

Hajime moves into the living room, shrugging off his jacket. After a moment, Oikawa follows. He’s subdued, which doesn’t suit him at all. He shuffles around, trying to place himself somewhere; make room for himself. 

Hajime turns to him. “Here, I can take your bag.” It’s weird, trying to be kind. They’re always awkward like this, after they’ve been apart for a while. It’ll normalize.

“Oh. Thanks.” Oikawa puts his bag on the floor then stands there for a minute, blinking.

Hajime means to reach for his bag, but he reaches for Oikawa instead, pulling him into a hug. It’s too painful not to. At least by doing this he might get the message across: _you don’t need to pretend, not with me, Shittykawa_. He squeezes tight, willing him to get it, and Oikawa drops his head into Hajime’s shoulder.

There are a few seconds when he thinks maybe he got it all wrong. Then Oikawa starts to cry in earnest. Another few seconds and he’s full-on sobbing.

“Shh, shh. It’s okay,” Hajime says, though his eyes are starting to sting too. _Great going, Hajime._ For all his calm, and despite how well he knows the heart beating rapidly against his chest, he isn’t equipped to deal with this after all. Whatever he does won’t be enough—because it isn’t fixable. All he can do offer is his strength, holding Oikawa tight against him so that he doesn’t have to stand on his own. His lips against Oikawa’s forehead, trying desperately to absorb all the hurt radiating out of him. His words, coming out as steady as he can make them, whispering a lie to try and make it true: “It’s okay, it’s gonna be okay.”

#

It won’t be. Hajime knows that. Oikawa without volleyball is not okay at all. Oikawa has spent most of his life doing what he loves, what he’s best at. It’s a powerful drug, being recognized for something that _intrinsically_ gives you so much joy. Volleyball was always the first order of magnitude in Oikawa Tooru’s life; anything that followed was way, _way_ down that list. 

What Hajime told him all those years ago was true: _you’re the absolute best setter_. Oikawa took those words to heart, made them reality many times over. He was recruited into the youth league his sophomore year of college, made it onto a V.Premier League starting line-up shortly after graduation; the Men’s National Team, only a year later. Hajime was right about Oikawa’s dissatisfaction, too, his fierce drive to win. At every height there was another mountain to scale, and Oikawa clawed his way to conquer each one. Then there were the subtle wins, that no one else saw. How he got better about looking after himself, got less insecure. The first time he beat Ushiwaka in a game he insisted on celebrating—privately, with Hajime, because he couldn’t let everyone else know what a nasty asshole he was—and after that he approached most of his dramatic high school rivalries with a calm, calculating focus. If Tobio still riled him up simply by breathing no one was the wiser, and when Oikawa and Ushijima eventually ended up on the same pro team for Japan’s Olympic bid, they’d made a formidable pair, winning the nation a silver medal. This latest season had been a rollercoaster, laced with the crushing bitterness of every media outlet asking: _does Oikawa still have it?_

He’d proven his point, spectacularly. Best Server, after missing it for two years. MVP, at the very end.

Hajime was there through all of this, or at least as much as he could be, with a full time job and increasing responsibilities. He played volleyball beside Oikawa for as long as he could. His own retirement happened in their last year of university. He wasn’t sure if it helped that they went to the same college, but it hadn’t been that difficult a decision. He’d felt strangely responsible, and he never forgot how, before they left Miyagi, Mrs. Oikawa embraced him tightly and cried into his chest, saying _thank you_ and apologizing for her son.

“Mom, stop,” Oikawa whined, flushed all over his pretty face. “You’re stressing Iwa-chan out. And don’t _thank_ him for looking after me, that assumes I’m useless on my own!”

“Oh, Tooru,” Auntie said, and cried harder.

“It’s fine,” Hajime said, patting her shoulders gently, only slightly awkward. In his short life he’d been privy to far too many Oikawa tears across the board: Auntie, Takeru, and always, _always,_ Oikawa. His mother came over and touched Auntie on the elbow, gently leading her away.

“The boys will be all right,” Mom said, laughingly. 

“I know,” Auntie answered, sniffling and rubbing her nose. “Mostly thanks to Hajime-kun.” She’d looked beautiful then, but also older than Hajime ever remembered. As they climbed into the rental car Hajime reached for Oikawa’s hand instinctively. He clasped it for a few seconds, swallowed, then started driving. Once in a while he pushed a tissue into Oikawa’s balled-up fist, but otherwise he stayed quiet and let the music, the rain pattering on the windshield in earnest, drown out the noises of their own frantic hearts. Leaving Miyagi had shattered them both a little. It was a comfort to know that they’d have each other, at least for this next chapter. It felt like preserving a piece of home.

Volleyball, too, was a home for Oikawa: a safe harbor, a place that would never betray him. The court was his kingdom, and nothing compared to stepping onto it. And now, after years of sweat and tears and sometimes actual blood laid at her all-consuming altar, Oikawa—volleyball’s most loyal consort—had decided, at the height of his career, to withdraw from her embrace. It made sense; Oikawa, over the years, had developed an understanding of his own limits. Hajime knew that Oikawa had pushed it as far as he could, as relentlessly as he could; that he’d kept playing for as long as it made sense to. It had been beautiful, the trials and triumphs both, all the way through the end.

And now it’s over. This is an entirely new challenge: to figure out where to move from here, what comes after the game. Hajime’s sucked into it, like he always is when it comes to Oikawa Tooru—whether he’s bandaging a scraped elbow or slamming their foreheads together, he can never leave things alone when Tooru’s messed up. He wants to do it—he wouldn’t have it any other way—but damage control on this scale is terrifying, and Hajime’s never been good at handling fragile things.

#

Oikawa says he’s taking a break to figure things out. “I mean, I knew this was going to happen, it’s not like I _never_ thought about it! I did graduate with a college degree, you know.”

“Yeah,” Hajime says. He’s answering emails on his laptop. Oikawa’s sprawled on the couch, watching a show about wannabe idols competing for glory. It’s been three days, and Hajime’s—not worried, exactly, but a little uncertain. After Oikawa’s first magnificent crying jag, in which he’d sobbed through the fabric of Hajime’s shirt, he didn’t say much for the rest of the day. He drank miso soup and hot tea and murmured that he didn’t have an appetite for anything else; he took a shower and crawled into the futon Hajime had lain out for him, next to the bed, and immediately fell asleep. The next morning he woke Hajime up with a giant smile, apologizing for invading his kitchen, but swear-to-god he needed a new coffee maker, and would Iwa-chan like to try his scramble?

It was, actually, a very good scramble.

Hajime had felt weird, going off to work with—with Oikawa staying at his place, and nothing to occupy his time. “You don’t need to worry about _me_ , Iwa-chan,” Oikawa sing-songed. “I still have a whole bunch of obligations to fulfill, errands to run. It’s not like you need to babysit me. Or are you worried about me being lonely without you? Because honestly with the way our schedules have been lately, I’m _used_ to not having you around—”

“Don’t wreck anything while I’m gone,” Hajime grumbled, unable to keep listening.

“Be nicer to your wife!”

“You’re not my wife!” He yelled as he shut the door. That was partly so that Oikawa couldn’t see Hajime’s face, how the word _wife_ filled him with unceasing dread, not least because it was impossible to tell what the hell was going on in Oikawa’s idiot brain, as usual. 

_Do not redecorate anything!!!_ he texted furiously while on the train. 

_And don’t go through my stuff!!_ he added, after his first meeting.

In reply, Oikawa sent a selfie in which he was clearly traipsing through the nearby park. The blossoms had come late that April, and Oikawa looked like a refreshing spring prince. _Go easy on the exclamation marks, Iwa-chan!_ Thankfully, despite Hajime’s worry, Oikawa didn’t do anything except wash the dishes and pick up some groceries for himself: strawberry milk and chicken breast, fresh melon and spinach. 

It’s not clear how long Oikawa intends to stay, but it doesn’t feel right to bright it up. Hajime doesn’t want to pressure him. They’d never talked about a time limit for this arrangement, and he knows if Oikawa asks _how long will you let me,_ he’ll answer: _however long you need._

Onscreen, Miwako-chan has just been told that she didn’t get enough votes to make it onto the next episode. Her eyes wobble with tears as the dance instructor, the bitchy Kaede-sensei, tells her that although she has vastly improved, in the end, the competition was too tough. The surviving girls cluster around her, whilst soft piano music plays.

“That is some depressing shit,” Hajime intones.

“Really? I think it’s quite thrilling. Anyway, the girls are learning about the harsh reality of idol life.”

Since Hajime isn’t interested in debating the show’s merits, or revealing how closely he’s been watching for the past hour, he grunts and goes back to his emails.

“I wish you had a pet,” Oikawa pipes up. “I’d love to be petting a cat right now. Or like. A cute, fluffy dog.”

“I don’t need a pet when I have you.”

“Oh, is that so? But you never pet me.”

Hajime’s heartbeat quickens—fuck, that _always_ happens—but when he glances over Oikawa’s engrossed with his phone, probably playing some shitty dating sim. Annoyed, Hajime says, “You wanna sleep in the hallway?”

Oikawa looks up from his phone and winks. “Just kidding, Iwa-chan.”

#

Tooru sleeps on the futon the first three nights. It’s the fourth night when he creeps into Hajime’s bed, tucks up close, but doesn’t make a move otherwise, except to whisper “Is this okay?” when Hajime shifts.

_I don’t know_. Hajime swallows around a swirling tide of emotions; Oikawa knows he’s awake, so he can’t _not_ answer. “Yeah. It’s okay.” He feels cut up, bloody with hurt, the way he always is around his best friend; but he lets Oikawa wrap his arms around him, leans back into it carelessly so that they’re warm together. Oikawa exhales into the embrace, and Hajime lets himself relax. For a minute, they’re still, and he thinks they might even go to sleep that way. This much is fine. This much he can deal with. 

Then Oikawa leans in closer and presses a kiss to the back of his neck, so that Hajime tingles all over. Oikawa kisses him again, neither gentle nor insistent, and his hands are suddenly roving, snaking up beneath Hajime’s shirt. This is dangerous. For all his bravado Tooru’s still _broken_ right now, and Hajime’s so unsure of what he needs. It’s not like they’ve ever defined boundaries, but it’s different, living together again after so long. Does he want this? He has no idea; he’s been so fixated on solving for Oikawa, he hasn’t stopped to think for himself at all.

“Iwa-chan?” Oikawa stops, suddenly hesitant—although there’s something _else_ in his voice now, a breathiness that makes Hajime shiver. He rolls over and looks Oikawa in the face, lifts one palm to caress his cheek; with his free hand he twines their fingers together, still pressed against his chest. There’s a faint light from the street coming in through his cheap curtains. Hajime gazes at Oikawa for a long moment, trying and failing to find an answer in his eyes.

“If you keep looking at me I’m going to cry,” Oikawa murmurs.

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. Your eyes freak me out sometimes.”

“You’re such a weirdo.”

“Whatever. You love me anyway.”

“Yeah,” Hajime admits, kissing the corner of his mouth. “God knows why.” 

Oikawa makes a noise of discontent and shifts his head so that they’re kissing properly—Hajime opens his mouth, and Oikawa’s tongue slides against his, running along the edge of his teeth, sending sparks dancing down his spine. When Oikawa slips one hand into Hajime’s shorts he breaks away with a groan. _Shit_ , he thinks, while also thinking _it’s all right,_ though he can’t tell if he’s trying to reassure himself or Oikawa, busy palming Hajime’s cock.

“You’re such a sloppy kisser,” Hajime manages, trying to remember to breathe. Oikawa glances at him, gaze dark with lust; that look always undoes Hajime, makes him forget to be rational and careful and all the other things he has to be _twice_ of, whenever Oikawa’s around.

“I don’t know, you seem kinda into it.” Oikawa’s lips curve in a dangerous smile. His fingers curl tight, expert and assured, fingers that have wrought far too many miracles on the court, and Hajime unravels further, stifling a gasp as Oikawa starts stroking, steady, unhurried. 

“Hey.” Hajime _tries_ to sound warning, like he can’t be pushed around, won’t just do whatever Oikawa wants, but without warning Oikawa’s mouth is on his again, licking through it thoroughly, teeth clamping down on Hajime’s bottom lip until he’s a mess of sensations. 

“I missed you,” Oikawa says, the break in kissing both welcome and not. If his voice trembles around the words Hajime can’t explain why, can’t do much besides try to hold on, jerking against Oikawa’s hand.

When Hajime comes it’s graceless and shuddering, fists tight in Oikawa’s hair. His hands shake as they slide down Oikawa’s sweaty back, coming to rest on his hips. Oikawa’s still hard against him, breathing shallowly; Hajime sits up, hauling Oikawa with him, and arranges them so that Oikawa’s mostly on his lap, flush against his chest. He touches Oikawa’s cock, too far gone now to debate with himself as he closes his hand around it; he braces one arm against Oikawa’s shoulders, keeping him upright. When he starts moving Oikawa throws his head back, says “ _Fuck_ ,” the word hoarse and paperthin in the air. The line of his neck is beautiful, too visible in the dark as he tips his head back further. Hajime’s heart stings with that image, with Oikawa’s brittle loveliness, undone like this.

It only takes a few strokes before Oikawa comes, nails digging into Hajime’s back before he collapses onto Hajime’s shoulder. Hajime swallows, attempting to get his heartbeat under control; he traces the knobs of Oikawa’s spine, fingers ghosting over goosebumps in the room’s cold air.

“Can I kiss you?” Oikawa’s voice is quiet, his words muffled against Hajime’s collarbone. Any other time Hajime would have said _god, you’re asking this now?_ —but his skin is damp where Oikawa’s face is pressed into it, and only partly from sweat. Hajime reaches up with the hand that isn’t sticky and brushes the tears from Oikawa’s cheek, then holds his chin and kisses him carefully: once on each eyelid, twice on the forehead, and then his lips, _kindly_ now, without any of the gasping greediness from earlier.

“Whatever you want,” he answers, because Hajime has never been able to say no to Oikawa’s tears, his needs, the heat in his eyes and the softness of his mouth. “You can do whatever you want, Oikawa.”

Later, sometime when he’s already mostly asleep, he’ll hear Oikawa whisper, “Sorry, I’m asking too much,” against his chest. He’s too tired to answer, so all he does is hold him tighter, shake his head, press against him like that might leach away some of his grief.

#

Day twelve. Hajime’s at the stove making soba when his phone rings. It’s on the dinner table, but before he can get to it Oikawa strolls over and picks it up.

“Oi,” he warns, as Oikawa smiles and swipes the screen.

“Auntie!” Oikawa’s tone is bright with excitement. “Yes, of course. I’ve missed you too!”

“Put her on speaker phone,” Hajime says, trying not to worry. Oikawa sticks his tongue out and wanders back to the bedroom, apparently to have a private call _with Hajime’s mom_.

“Uh-huh,” he murmurs into the phone, so _fondly_ that Hajime feels intensely homesick. “Yeah. It was about time. Yes, don’t worry, I just popped in to see him now that I’m back in town.” 

Hajime decides to leave them be. His mom really does love Oikawa. On the few weekends when Hajime gets to visit, her second question is always when he last heard from Tooru. He decides to stop cooking because this might take a while, shuts off the stove, and tries to get some additional work done. He manages to send off two emails, and is contemplating a third when Oikawa emerges, eyes a little pink, nodding intently. “Let me put you on FaceTime,” he says, and holds the camera up as it shifts to a video call. “Iwa-chan, say hi!”

The screen fills with his mother’s smile, beaming at him, before she twists the camera to show Mrs. Oikawa beside her, waving excitedly. 

“Hi, Hajime! We heard Tooru’s been bothering you lately—we’re sorry for all the trouble,” Auntie says. There are empty dessert plates in front of them, on the table in the Iwaizumi kitchen. The image does weird things to his heart.

“They were having dessert,” Oikawa explains, laughing at Hajime’s expression. 

“Auntie, hi,” he says. “It’s no trouble.”

“You’re reliable as always, Hajime-kun.”

Hajime’s mom cuts in. “Oh, stop! You’re the one with a son who’s a national superstar!”

The two women erupt in giggles. Oikawa slides into the seat next to Hajime and leans in so they can be in the frame together. “Have I already told you that you both look absolutely amazing, Mom, Auntie? Seriously. What face masks are you using?”

More giggles. Auntie says, “The snail oil ones. Hey, Tooru, don’t take advantage of Hajime too much.”

“I won’t! I mean, I don’t! Also, Auntie, I’m sorry for taking up your family time. Here, I’ll give Iwa-chan his phone back.”

“No, that’s all right. Hajime, I’ll call another time. We’ll let you boys have dinner. Tooru, call me again sometime, you have my number!” With another energetic wave, she hangs up. Hajime frowns at Oikawa, who grins lazily.

“What did you guys talk about?”

“That’s a secret.”

Ugh. He knows his mom won’t tell him, either. “Fine.” He stands and flips the stove back on, continues chopping noodles. He’s not all that surprised when Oikawa embraces him from behind, nibbling on the curve of his ear. “I’m handling a knife,” he warns.

Oikawa ignores him, as usual. “Auntie asked me if there were any cute girls I could introduce you to. My middle blocker has a younger sister who is super sweet. Makes a great bento and works at a research firm focused on environmental issues. Should I give you her number?”

“If she’s so great, why don’t _you_ date her?”

It’s a moment before Oikawa answers, laughingly, “It’s not cool to date your teammate’s siblings, Iwa-chan.”

“Right,” Hajime says, and puts the knife down. He turns around. Oikawa steps back, tilts his head wonderingly. Hajime doesn’t know what he wants to say. _He’s not your teammate anymore, so go after her,_ is immediately followed by— _I don’t want you to date anyone. Or do I?_ He’s a mess, but he manages to say, “Well I hope you told Mom I’ve got my hands full with other things.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he murmurs, looping his arms around Oikawa’s hips, ignoring how it makes him feel when Oikawa laces arms around his neck, easy as anything. “You could probably take a guess.”

“To be honest, I _really_ don’t know why you’re still single, Iwa-chan.”

“Says the mythical bachelor of the V.League.”

These are worn accusations, and they’re good at this, hurting each other with it. Hajime thinks he won’t resent it if Oikawa dates someone. The part of him that’s been Oikawa’s best friend since birth still wants that to happen, wants Oikawa to get married and have beautiful children, bring them home to his parents on holidays and make the nation happy with some post-career fairytale romance. Hajime will play tag with Oikawa’s kids and tell them what an idiot their dad is. Some smaller part of him wants that for himself, too. The normalcy, the clear-cut picture of a nice Japanese family. But there’s another, quieter part of him—size unknown—that’s trying not to break at the very idea, although it’s too afraid to ask for anything else. 

There’s a strange tension as they study each other. Oikawa Tooru’s much-famed bachelorhood is the subject of intense speculation. Entire internet forums are dedicated to this or that actress, model, or female athlete he’s secretly dating. _My heart belongs to volleyball_ stopped being a satisfying answer long ago, but the obvious results of that dedication kept bad faith ideas to a minimum. There is one oft-cited interview from early in his career, in which Oikawa alluded to a hometown sweetheart, before quickly adding that the situation was _extremely_ complicated, _and that’s all I’m going to say about it, sorry!_ News crews had bothered their neighbors and contacted Aoba Johsai team members for a few weeks before dropping the issue. Hajime’s own comment had been a determined, “Please never contact me again.”

Hajime has never asked Oikawa about it, because every possibility about that statement makes him basically want to die. Sooner or later they’re going to have To Talk, now that Oikawa can’t blame his lack of a dating life on his career, but it doesn’t seem like something to bring up when they’re sleeping together every night, and _sleeping_ together…well, more than Hajime wants to admit.

He presses a kiss to Oikawa’s eyebrow, gently releasing his grip. 

“Go make the salad,” he says, feeling slightly relieved when Oikawa fetches the cabbage and starts slicing it without another word. 

#

The thing with Oikawa is that Hajime has no idea what this is, what to call it. Hajime has always been miserable with love for him, and somehow since they started hooking up it’s only gotten more difficult. It began back in college, after that first match they finally won against Ushiwaka, high on endorphins and drunk on success; somehow it had devolved into frantic kissing, and frantically removing each other’s clothes. He thinks maybe he instigated it, but there’s no way he’d have gone that far if Oikawa hadn’t been _responsive_ somehow. They weren’t even drunk.

The morning after, Hajime made Oikawa eggs on toast. He dished them up, poured them both coffee, and sat at the table, eating away as if everything was perfectly normal. Oikawa looked fraught, like he was coming down with a fever or something. His body was twitchy. There was a bruise on his neck that was appallingly blatant, and Hajime kept failing not to look at it. In truth he felt like exploding, or running a marathon, or letting the earth swallow him up. But apparently none of those were feasible, so he just sat there and ate eggs and gulped coffee. 

A half-hour ago he’d woken up, feeling achey and content. Then he’d frozen utterly at the slide of Oikawa’s bare back against his chest, their legs embarrassingly tangled. “Uh,” he’d said, while Oikawa yawned and stirred.

“Morning, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa answered, because this wasn’t too unusual except for the fact that they were both _completely_ _naked_. “Ah,” he added, shock dawning on his face as he sat up.

They’d managed eye contact for exactly two seconds before Oikawa rolled off the bed, stammering about needing to take a shower, diving for his shorts that were lost somewhere on the floor. Hajime pointedly avoided looking at his ass and said he would go make breakfast, allowing Oikawa to promptly flee from the room. The sheets were still warm beside Hajime. It was hard to keep his mind from going blank. He felt, on the whole, pretty solemn about the whole thing. It had been bound to happen, maybe, but that didn’t mean he knew exactly how to fix this.

He’d been expecting awkwardness, but not silence—not from Shittykawa, anyway. Because this sucked, Hajime finally said, “Look, I’ll be honest. I won’t really mind if you just forget about this. Or if it’s just my body you want, or whatever.”

Oikawa choked. Hajime came over and whacked him on the back so that he coughed out his eggs. Gross. When Oikawa looked at him his eyes were teary, horrified—that abominable puppy-dog look, injured and adorable at once. “What?!”

“You heard me.”

“Why would you even _say_ something like that?”

“Because you’re the most important thing in the world to me.” The words came out before he’d had a chance to think them through. For one wild moment Hajime felt he’d played his hand too poorly, let the house run away with everything. This was _Oikawa_ , after all, who made it his business to know everyone’s weakness. But Hajime felt guilty, too, at the way this confession was clearly fucking with Oikawa’s ability to deal. _Why would I say that? It’s not like I’m hoping for anything._

“There’s no way,” Oikawa said. He clutched his fork, knuckles rigid; the panic that had simmered in his eyes all morning intensified. 

Hajime just _looked_ at him. This whole thing had been ridiculous from the start, and he was tired of it. He wanted Oikawa to understand that he’d never joke about something like that; but he also knew that it was entirely on him, the way it always fucking was, to make this okay again. Give them a point to keep moving forward from. “Don’t freak out about it,” he said, trying to sound casual. There was another bruise on the curve where Oikawa’s neck met his shoulder, and Hajime remembered the taste of the skin there, salty against his tongue. He tried not to let it get to him.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa started, struggling for words. “I don’t know what you…I would never…”

“All I’m saying, Oikawa, is there’s no need to prioritize me over anything. There’s no need to _choose_ me. At the end of the day, if you want something else I won’t mind. I mean it.”

“You think I’m that terrible?”

Hajime smiled, because _this_ at last was familiar territory. “I _know_ you are. I’m saying all that so you don’t have to feel like…you owe me anything…for this. It was good and I wanted it. It doesn’t have to change anything. And if,” he felt himself turning red, the words starting to trip over each other on their way out of his mouth. He’d already revealed too much, but maybe that was no longer a valid point since he knew what it felt like to be _inside his fucking best friend (fucking. inside. his best friend)_. Hajime tried his best to keep going, even if he wanted to die. “If at the end of the day you still want…this. Then that’s okay too.”

“ _This_?”

“Fuck, I don’t know. I’m—it’s not like we—yeah. This.” Hajime gestured at nothing, at everything. All the things that made up what they were to each other, what they were together: from nursery school to last night, every bruise and argument, every screaming match, every high-five, every walk home with their fingers nearly touching. The way they didn’t need words to communicate, and the silences strung between them; the tender, terrifying questions therein. 

Oikawa reached across the table, and Hajime clasped his hand without thinking.

“It’s not only about me,” Oikawa said, in the smallest voice Hajime had ever heard him use. “What…do you want? Iwa-chan?”

The question caught him off guard. He never expected to be asked—an underestimation on his part—which was why he answered, simply: “I want you to keep playing volleyball. And I want to keep being your best friend.”

“And? What about the sex?” Oikawa said it carefully, clearly, presumably so that Hajime would know exactly what he meant—except he didn’t, not really. For all his supposed embarrassment Oikawa was suddenly being straightforward, displaying all of the _experience_ he’d earned in that area (Hajime would never, ever tell him that had been his first time). His look was intent, now, nearly curious. Inscrutable in the way he sometimes got, that made Hajime nervous as hell.

“That’s…I don’t mind it. When you want it,” Hajime said, which was a massive fucking understatement. He hoped his palm wasn’t going sweaty.

Time seemed to roll by, punctuated only by the blurping noises of his old dishwasher and a particularly aggressive bird outside the window. Hajime tried to review what he’d said, to figure out if Oikawa had understood. _This doesn’t have to mean more than it does. I don’t want to burden you with anything, so just keep playing your best game._ Maybe there was a way to be clearer, but it didn’t seem possible without wanting something in return, which Hajime was completely not prepared to risk. Oikawa looked at the table, then back at him, then at their twined hands, finally releasing them.

“Okay,” Oikawa said, sounding relieved. There was a familiar, playful smile on his face now; it was irritating, but it was suddenly overlaid with the memory of Oikawa smiling that same way, before dragging his tongue down the length of Hajime’s stomach, to close over his— _yikes_. “Okay, I think I can do that.” He primly cut some more of his egg toast. “I don’t get your strategy here, Iwa-chan, but you shouldn’t let me get the upper hand so much. _Most important thing?_ Me?” He blinked his eyes, huge and purposeful. “If someone asked me yesterday I would’ve said you didn’t _care!_ ”

Hajime flicked him on the forehead, hard. “Let me give you amnesia, then.” 

That seemed to break the spell. Oikawa burst out laughing. “So savage, Iwa-chan! At least let me finish eating first!” 

If Hajime’s heart crumbled as Oikawa rubbed his forehead, that was okay; that meant things were safe, they didn’t need to change, and he could still do everything he needed to. Protecting Oikawa, like he’d promised Auntie all those years ago. And, somehow, protecting himself.

#

It worked out the way Hajime planned, mostly. He played volleyball through the end of college, ensuring their team had a respectable finish in Nationals. It became clear midway through uni that he wouldn’t try and pursue it professionally. He grieved over it for half a year, then played his fiercest until it was over. He completed his degree in Information and Computer Science, and landed a job doing miscellaneous operations for a tech start-up in Shinjuku. It wasn’t boring, and it meant that he could wear hoodies and jeans to work instead of a suit. Somehow all those years of corralling sweaty volleyball players seemed useful when he needed to motivate a developer, or get a marketing analyst to find some other way to lower their customer acquisition costs. He became an assistant manager after two years, and from then on the promotions came fairly steadily, until he found himself with a Director title and far too many juniors reporting to him. He called his parents every other week, updating them on his projects and asking for help with cooking, and tried not to feel to embarrassed at the way they joked about his glamorous Tokyo life.

And Oikawa—well. Hajime was there through the mess of scouting, in their junior year of uni, his agonies over which pro team to join, how he’d nearly made a decision purely to spite Kageyama, then demonstrated a newfound maturity by deciding not to. Hajime was also there, by sheer luck, at the first game when Oikawa got pulled off the bench, post-graduation. He was on his feet with the rest of the crowd, screaming til his throat hurt; his hands went numb from clutching the railing of his balcony seat, knuckles smarting when he let go as the match was called. He went down to the court and wasn’t surprised to find the media swarming around Oikawa, as if the fog of interest hanging over them ever since he’d won Best Setter in middle school had suddenly solidified, engulfing his best friend.

Oikawa, of course, knew exactly what to do, exactly what to say, smiling brightly through all the questions. If it was that practiced smile, slightly different than his real one, it didn’t matter, because it looked so good on Twitter that evening, and the next day, and the day after. Four months later Hajime found himself staring at a subway ad of Oikawa, fresh-faced, holding up a can of milk-flavored soda. Hajime poked his fingers into billboard-Oikawa’s nostrils and took a selfie. It had been worth it to endure the weird looks some high school girls gave him when Oikawa FaceTimed him, blushing furiously, and whined for two minutes about how _Iwa-chan was so mean_.

“I _told_ them I didn’t like my hair styled that way but the—the stylist wouldn’t listen, she used too much gel, and way too much concealer—”

“Why’re you so embarrassed? You look good.” _Really good_ , Hajime thought, realizing that it was going to be hard walking through the city with Oikawa’s gorgeous face everywhere, knowing Oikawa wasn’t _there_. In the weeks leading up to Oikawa’s moving out they’d avoided touching each other, which had made it slightly more bearable. They’d never dissected what was happening when they slept together, anyway, which they’d done erratically through college. Hajime assumed it was over.

There was a foreboding silence on the other end of the line. “Don’t be sweet,” Oikawa finally said, warning and a little— _broken_ probably wasn’t the right word, but Hajime couldn’t think of anything else. He sat on a bench outside the subway and the let that _feeling_ wash over him again, the one he periodically got, missing Oikawa so hard he was surprised he didn’t pass out from how much it hurt. “You’re not like yourself when you say nice things. Is age taking the edge off you, Iwa-chan?”

“You wish, Shittykawa. Calpis-drinking Trashkawa.” Hajime laughed, dug his knuckles into his eyes. “How’s training?”

That was how he’d get his updates: a long phone call once in a while, which he’d spend looping through a park or garden, grinning at the way Oikawa was overly expressive, as usual, practically bursting off his phone screen. The LINE messages were more frequent, depending on whether he was at a tournament or in training. On rare occasions Oikawa made it to Seijou and college reunions, but more often than not, it was Hajime having to update the others on what ghastly new exercises Shittykawa’s sadistic coach came up with. They met in Miyagi most New Year’s Holidays, commiserated over the their respective mothers’ despair over their sad bachelor sons. Then there was that one year when the Iwaizumis had extended family over. Hajime offered to stay at a nearby hotel, and promptly ran into Oikawa in the lobby. 

“Takeru’s home from college so they gave him my room,” he said, a nervous smile skittering onto his face. Hajime wasn’t all that surprised when Oikawa turned up outside his door a few minutes shy of midnight. “I was thinking,” he said, awkward and hopeful, and then Hajime took his wrist and tugged him inside, pulled the curtains over the windows and kissed him, open-mouthed, until he stopped spouting stupid innuendos. 

They’d done the same thing in the Yokohama hotel after Hanamaki’s wedding, which Oikawa had made a special appearance at because he had a Tokyo game two days after. That was when he mentioned the team transfer, the lease he’d signed for the place in Roppongi. Hajime didn’t know the precise building but he knew it was expensive. “I’m gonna be in Tokyo more often now _,”_ Oikawa whispered. He sounded pleased. It was another shift, mysterious as all the previous ones; Hajime smoothed his hand over Oikawa’s hipbone, feeling unaccountably raw.

He’d wondered at it: Oikawa’s familiarity, the way Hajime’s feelings never changed despite the omiai he went on to please his mother. How in the hazy light of morning they’d fucked again and he’d grasped Oikawa’s hips, tried to memorize the way he arched off the bed; how he’d gasped _don’t be so gentle, I’ll be fine,_ even if Hajime _knew_ this was an important tournament _._ How, after, Hajime kissed the fiery-hot skin over Oikawa’s heart and thought of asking him to stay. How he caught himself and thought _no, Hajime. Don’t._

“You’ll still be traveling a ton, though.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you should rent it out.”

“I want a place to call my own,” Oikawa said, tracing thoughtless circles over Hajime’s ribcage. “You should come over sometime, after I move in. I’ll make you feijoada. Learned it at the training camp in Brazil last year.”

“Okay,” Hajime said, lifting Oikawa’s hand to kiss the skin at his wrist, forever surprising in its softness. “Sure.”

“I want to cook for you, Iwa-chan.” 

There was something strange in Oikawa’s voice then, something that made Hajime’s blood run cold. He sat up so he could look into Oikawa’s eyes, and reply, solemnly, “So you can poison me, or something?” 

Oikawa’s laugh had a way of opening up Hajime’s chest. The only downside was how much it hurt, longing for it all the time.

If things had changed in those years after college, long and short all at once, it had been on terms Hajime was comfortable with: nothing definite, friendship taking precedence, allowing for the maximum flexibility while Oikawa’s career rose to the next height, and the next. Now, more than a decade later, he’s finally making good on that promise from middle school. No matter how good Oikawa is, no matter how much he’s grown, the comedown was always going to be difficult. Hajime pointedly didn’t think about it all these years. How maybe he should have done more—found a beautiful girl for Oikawa to lean on, researched some path for him that wouldn’t be this much like freefall. He’d let life and his own career distract him, let the kisses and occasional sex make him forget—at the end of the day even Oikawa Tooru was human, that chasing volleyball glory wouldn’t be forever.

It’s scary, to realize what’s left. It’s not like Icarus, because Oikawa came straight through on the other side of the sun, shiny medals in hand. But that’s why there’s no roadmap for this: when his wings burn up, at the end of a miracle. There’s only Hajime, waiting for him in the ocean, arms shaking as he tries to pull them both to shore.

#

Sometimes he thinks he shouldn’t worry. Oikawa befriends several of Hajime’s neighbors: Mrs. Hamada and her twin kids, Ms. Takemoto, even the grouchy Mrs. Uehara, who, smitten, tells him to call her “Auntie.” He relegates their gossip while doing post-dinner stretches. 

“People aren’t supposed to know you live here!” Hajime groans.

“Don’t worry, they’ve all sworn to secrecy. Anyway, I told them that we’re childhood friends, that I’m only staying for a bit while my place gets renovated. I showed them your cute middle school photos as proof.” Before Hajime can punch him he adds, “Plus I’m not _really_ living here, I’m…hiding for awhile. Y’know.”

“Right,” Hajime says, heart clenching. He hasn’t broached the subject and now probably never will, but Oikawa takes great pains to remind him it’s only temporary.

Oikawa still has a bunch of media interviews and modeling contracts; every now and then he comes home with subtle eyeshadow and his hair done up, complaining about how someone asked his agent whether he’d be interested in acting. “As if!” he said. “That would be so much fodder for all my haters, who keep saying I only succeeded at volleyball because of my looks!”

“I don’t know, maybe you’d be decent at acting.” Hajime poured more sesame oil on the stir-fried vegetables. 

“Iwa-chan? Can it be? Have you become my fan?”

“No, dumbass, I’m just amazed at how you’ve pretended for so long to be a decent human being, instead of your actual shitty self. You deserve an Oscar.”

He tunes out Oikawa’s complaining as he finishes the stir-fry and gets a can of beer from the fridge.

“I want one too!” Oikawa whines, when he settles at the table.

“You never want beer, though?”

“It’s fine, I can drink beer now. I don’t need to worry about bloating or hangovers, since I’m retired.” He says it so casually, so quickly, that Hajime gets up to grab another can so he won’t feel bad.

Hajime cooks once in a while, because he likes making certain dishes, but these days Oikawa has subsumed his kitchen. He was already a pretty good chef to begin with, but he gets even better, trying all kinds of recipes, which start escalating in difficulty. 

“I don’t wanna act, but maybe I should become a YouTuber,” he muses. “Would you subscribe to Oikawa-sama’s Grand Cooking Adventures?”

Hajime, who mostly uses YouTube to watch reruns of Ninja Warrior and clips of various fluffy dogs, has to be honest: “No.”

“Well, you might not love it, but I bet all my Insta followers would.”

“You’re not—you don’t show my place in your posts, do you?” _Or me_ , Hajime thinks, with a faint, frozen horror.

Oikawa looks surprised. “No, of course not. Why would I subject the universe to your scowling face?” 

In the three weeks since he moved in, Oikawa takes up other hobbies besides cooking. He purchases an ukulele and drives both of them crazy learning how to strum; he lazes around reading _The Prisoner of Azkaban_ in English (“Oh, the first two? I read them three years ago, the summer I was in California.”); he starts playing online Go. He responds to the massive backlog of fanmail that accumulated in his final season. He cries through the last episode of Superstar Shoujo Circle, and promptly streams all the earlier seasons on shady-looking fansites. And although he sometimes drinks beer he still spends a ton of time on fitness, running for miles every day, doing high-intensity intervals or resistance training for at least an hour (two sets of twenty minutes, plus a warm up and a cool down). 

“You should coach volleyball,” Hajime tells Oikawa one night, while inspecting a product requirements document. “If you don’t want to coach the junior league right now, I’m sure you could coach high school. That’s something you’d actually be good at.”

“For your info, Iwa-chan, I am good at _many_ things. Some might say I’m _amazing_ at a handful.”

“Yeah, sure, but you’d actually enjoy this too.” Oikawa volunteered teaching volleyball until his pro career picked up; other than Kageyama, to whom Oikawa’s twisted sense of envy defied logic, he’d always been very generous with younger players. He has his Psych degree to back it up, and he’s in shape. _Extremely_ in shape, Hajime thinks, grumpily. It seems a natural fit. Oikawa could probably be a commentator or a journalist, too, but—it seems more fitting somehow, for Oikawa to pass on what he loves through direct instruction. Also, that horrible bossy streak needs an outlet.

He expects Oikawa to breezily shut down his suggestion, but instead he hears, very sharply, “Don’t be stupid, Iwa-chan. I’d die of jealousy.”

“Maybe,” Hajime says, looking up from his laptop. _But at least you’d be on the court,_ he doesn’t add.

“Ugh. I don’t want to take your advice just ‘cause it’s always right.”

Hajime might be blushing, but if he’s getting through to Oikawa, that’s progress. Oikawa will take however long he needs, but he’ll get there. These days he doesn’t rush things like he did in middle school. He knows what steady progress does, how it pays off in the end. Hajime looks over at where Oikawa is doing some kind of Hot Body Yoga in front of his laptop, unashamedly warrior-posing. It’s embarrassing to look at, partly because he looks so…at home, in Hajime’s tiny living room.

“Could you do that with a shirt on?”

Oikawa notices him looking and smirks. “Why? Distracted?”

“Kinda,” he says, because Oikawa’s not the only one who knows how to rile someone up. He appreciates the flicker of interest in his best friend’s eyes, the way Oikawa shrugs and moves back into downward dog.

Hajime shuts his laptop and walks over. Oikawa’s determinedly staring at his mat, so Hajime touches his waist, feels Oikawa’s fully-body shudder like a miniature victory. “M’gonna suplex you onto the couch,” he warns.

“You don’t have the arm strength,” Oikawa answers, laughing as he half straightens up. Hajime tries not to feel too amused when Oikawa discovers how wrong he is. He goes down with a yelp. “Iwa-chan! Why do you have to be so _rough_ all the time?”

“You’re not the only one who still works out.”

“Mm. I’m _well_ aware of that, Iwaizumi-kun.” Suddenly Oikawa’s pulling him onto the couch, settling on his lap. “I love it when you wear button-downs,” Oikawa says, smiling deviously as he undoes each button, deliberately slow. He’s changing the subject about coaching, probably. But Hajime started it, so he can’t complain.

“You mean you like removing them suggestively, ‘cause you’re a fucking tease.”

“I’ll concede that point,” Oikawa says, fingers sliding down Hajime’s chest as he leans in for a kiss. 

“That’s a first,” Hajime murmurs, smiling against Oikawa’s lips. He cups the back of Oikawa’s neck and rolls them over, so that Oikawa’s flat on the couch and Hajime can lean over him and press kisses to his throat, his collarbones, his chest, listening to that nickname he’s grown to love stutter, breaking, through the air.

#

“Something good happen?”

“What? No.” Hajime stops smiling. Which means shit, he _was_ smiling—at the memory of Oikawa blockading the door that morning, heckling him for no discernible reason, until Hajime rolled his eyes and kissed him. _Thanks for the tamagoyaki,_ he said, stepping out the door while Oikawa spluttered. _It was the perfect level of salty._

Mari looks at him, a curious grin on her face. “Okay, boss.”

#

There’s laughter most nights, but sometimes, there’s coming home to Oikawa caught up in his own private thunderstorm, quiet and motionless and curled up somewhere. On the couch, a match frozen on the tv in front of him. By the windowsill, his head buried in his knees. On the futon that he doesn’t sleep on anymore, that Hajime leaves out anyway (“I want to stay _here_ , you’re much warmer, Iwa-chan,” “Stop fucking hogging all the blankets, then”). Once, in the tub, half his face submerged, and it takes all of Hajime’s willpower not to punch him in the jaw, he’s so scared. He grips Oikawa’s shoulders instead, pressing down until he’s sure it hurts, but Oikawa doesn’t yelp or fight back. He only closes his eyes against the pain, like he wants more of it.

“I was just lost in my thoughts,” Oikawa mumbles, drying his hair, eyes remote in the mirror.“Sorry for making you worry, Iwa-chan.”

“Sorry for hurting you,” Hajime mutters, thinking of the bruises inevitably forming on Oikawa’s shoulder blades.

“It didn’t hurt.”

Hajime holds his breath.

“Nothing hurts,” Oikawa says, lightly.

Hajime sighs and kisses the top of Oikawa’s head, something he can only do because Oikawa’s seated. Oikawa manages a tiny smile then, glancing up at him. His eyes are pink under those long lashes. “It’s really over, huh?”

Hajime’s never been able to lie to Oikawa. He’s never wanted to, so the fact that he’s grasping for words now makes him angry all over again, that he’s so ill-equipped to deal with this. Words aren’t his thing, they’ve never been, so he leans over, drapes himself over Oikawa’s shoulders and hugs him tightly. “What can I do?” he asks. He meant it to come out strong, assuring. Instead it’s as thin and flimsy as he feels, which is the curse of being in love with Oikawa Tooru: you just feel helpless, all the fucking time. 

Strangely, it’s those words that get Oikawa to snap out of it. He reaches up to cradle Hajime’s face, shakes his head so that wet hair tickles Hajime’s cheek. “You don’t need to do anything, Iwa-chan. You’ve already—you already do everything for me. Just…stay here. With me.”

“I’m here,” Hajime says, because that’s easy, that’s always going to be a given. It’s dumb, Oikawa comforting him when he’s not the one in pain, but that’s the equivalent blessing of being in love with Oikawa Tooru: the amazing strength at his core, the emotional intelligence that can pull even the most fractured team together. Hajime would kneel in the face of it, but he knows Oikawa won’t like that, so he tightens his grip and repeats: “You know I’m always. Here.”

#

Later that night, Oikawa burrows deeper into his embrace and says, “I know I’m dramatic, but I’m not _drowning myself in the bathtub_ dramatic.”

“Please don’t joke about that.” The joke, though, means Oikawa’s mostly back to normal. Thank god.

“Okay, okay, I won’t. You should have seen your face. You were so ready to punch me.”

“I still could.”

“ _Goodnight_ , Iwa-chan.”

“Goodnight,” he says. _Tooru_ , he thinks, the name startling his sleep-foggy brain. His lips form the words but don’t let out any sound, because too many things have changed already, and there doesn’t need to be anything else.

#

The next day Oikawa has procured some kind of chubby plant in a sleek gray pot. 

“It’s called a _succulent_ , Iwa-chan. Come on, isn’t it cute?”

“A succulent. And you named it _what_ now?”

“Potato,” Oikawa huffs. 

“Potato.”

“Doesn’t it _look_ like a potato?”

“You are such an idiot,” Hajime snorts, ignoring Oikawa’s rebuttals about how _this only happened because you don’t have a dog_ , snatching a bite of fried tofu from the plate already on the table, reminding himself he shouldn’t get used to this.

#

Hajime regrets bringing Oikawa to his office party. It’s not like he could have hidden it, because Oikawa spied the blazer hanging on the back of his bedroom door and _immediately_ said, “What fanciness are you going to that you’re actually dressing like a gentleman, Iwa-chan?”

“None of your business.”

“All your business is my business!”

“It’s just an office party,” Hajime said, worn out. “It’s the firm’s seven-year anniversary.” It’s been five weeks since Oikawa showed up; “Potato” now has a sibling called “Yam” and Oikawa has more than once alluded to the fact that he’d like more plant children; having finished all four seasons of _Superstar Shoujo Circle,_ Oikawa is now watching the male-idol version, creatively called _Idol Music Burning Heart._ There are fewer days when Oikawa is catatonic, but every now and then his eyes will go glassy and his lips will tremble, and Hajime will think _we’re not out of the woods yet._ Only yesterday he caught Oikawa silently crying over a pot of curry. Apparently a fan had sent him the sweetest tribute video ever, and he could never listen to this specific piano song ever again.

“An office party? Can I go with you?”

“Uh.” He’d never brought anyone to his office parties before. It would definitely draw attention. And it was _Oikawa Tooru_ , too; even people not remotely interested in sports would’ve heard of him, leading his team to that Olympic silver, or at least seen him in that Uniqlo campaign from two years ago. Hajime never remembers these things when Oikawa’s around because he’s so much like stupid old Asskawa from high school, nothing like the handsome and capable setter that set the nation’s heart on fire. There will be questions, and Hajime has worked incredibly hard to keep his personal life low-key. 

But Oikawa looks so hopeful, that wobbly smile on his face and his hands curled into the sleeves of his oversized sweater—it is completely unacceptable for anyone as fucking gigantic as Oikawa to _be that cute_. Besides, Oikawa probably needs some non-volleyball socializing. “Fine,” Hajime relents. “But please don’t make a commotion. I like where I work. I don’t want them to fire me because my friends are problematic.”

“I will secure you a raise,” Oikawa says, eyes bright with plotting. “I will seduce your manager into granting your next promotion.”

“If you seduce _anyone_ , I will kick your ass back to Miyagi.”

In hindsight, that’s a useless threat, because for Oikawa seduction is simply a matter of being. Oikawa charms his way through dinner, genially downplaying any praise, taking questions of “So you’ve really retired?” with the solemn gravitas of a soldier after war. Usually this is followed by Oikawa saying, “Tell me more about the work you do, that’s fascinating!” Hajime’s coworkers, flattered by the athlete’s interest, are only too happy to oblige. 

The party has slowly reached the stage where people are discarding inhibitions, the initial nerves of celebrating with seniors and managers gone out the window. Hajime watches Oikawa sparkle from across the room, caught in a ring of awestruck associates, asking about the Nippon vs Italy overtime rally of legend from Worlds, four years ago. He’s always been good at this—asking fans what they think, laughing when they laugh, telling them what they want to hear. There’s an intimacy to admiring Oikawa Tooru that’s deeply rewarding; even back in high school, he remembered girls’ names, the chocolates they made for him, whether he’d received a letter from them. He was always extra-kind when they’d show up for him after he’d turned down a confession. 

It never stopped being a lovely picture: Oikawa Tooru, surrounded by girls. Hajime watches it with slowly gathering resolve, aware that he’s too used now to Oikawa greeting him when he comes home. If this doesn’t end soon they’ll be in trouble. 

“He _is_ super good looking,” Mari-chan observes, coming over with a dish of mini croquettes. “He, like, looks better in person than in all the photos.” She offers her plate up to Hajime, and he takes a croquette, gratefully.

“Not you too, Mari! This guy’s so full of himself, he rubs it in my face ten thousand times a day.”

She giggles. “You’re not usually that harsh, Iwaizumi-san.”

“God, if you only knew what he was like in high school, you’d see how extremely generous I’m being.”

She holds up the plate again; he takes another croquette. They’re way too delicious.

“Y’know, I thought maybe there was something going on in your family when you started acting weird a month ago. Like you were really gloomy some days. Should I not have worried?” Mari-chan’s eyes are gentle behind her glasses. As his assistant director she’s become Hajime’s primary support system in the office, turning out reports quick as lightning and briefing him on contentious issues so he has a chance to calm down before the most heated meetings. She was the manager for her high school basketball team, and part of student council in university; they’d bonded quickly over their love of sports and their disdain of incompetence. Hajime sometimes wonders what he missed out on, all those years of not quite knowing how to have friendships with girls. The downside is that they can read each other pretty well by this point, and he’s sure Mari knows _something_ , but he isn’t sure what conclusions she’s drawn.

He trusts Mari’s discretion as much as he trusts her judgement, though, which is why he sighs and says, “I mean. He _is_ basically family.”

“Oh my god, that’s so sweet.” The glint in her eyes might be wickedness, or the glare of the fluorescents shining down on them. “Is that how you are about him all the time? That kind of whiplash is too much, Iwaizumi-san.”

“That’s not—!” There’s nowhere to backtrack to, not when he’s so messed up about it himself, but he tries anyway. “We—there was this whole promise we made in middle school. And I owe a lot to his parents, who are really close with my parents.”

“Uh-huh. This is like the plot of some shoujo manga.”

“Mari—you—” he’d poke her but he’s worried about the plate she’s holding, and anyway at this point Mr. Yamada from Finance comes over, musing about how he had no idea that Hajime played volleyball through college, that it was truly an honor he’d brought _the_ Oikawa Tooru over, and would it be too much if he asked for an autograph for his teenage daughter, a very promising libero herself?

“Sure,” Hajime says, shooting Mari a warning glare while he goes off to find some card stock. Mari, the fiend, has engaged Oikawa in conversation by the time Hajime returns. Seeing two of his favorite people excitedly talking together makes his heart swell, though he’s irrationally affected by the image: wouldn’t it lift everyone up, to see a fairytale ending for their fairytale prince? The adorable height difference, the appreciable aesthetic. How easy it is to swallow, to go on in admiration. Hajime has always wanted that for his best friend. Hajime has always had a slightly masochistic streak, too, but in this as with everything he’s a pragmatist first. If things turn out all right, that’s all that matters. “You’ve got a fan,” he says, handing the card and a Sharpie to Oikawa. “It’s for our Finance Manager’s daughter.”

“Iwa-chan! I’m off-duty right now! As your _guest!_ ”

“That is _such_ a great nickname,” Mari says.

“Oh shit,” Hajime blurts, suddenly aware that on Monday everyone will probably call him _Iwa-chan_. 

Mari claps her hands together, her time-for-a-change motion. “I should go check on our newest designer, last I saw her they were making her take shots in the kitchen. It was so good to meet you, Oikawa-san.”

“You can call me Tooru,” Oikawa says generously. “If I can call you Mari.”

She laughs, pats him twice on the arm, and stalks off. Hajime frowns. Oikawa winks and takes the card, signing it and drawing a tiny cartoon Oikawa in the corner, tongue stuck out and hearts floating above its head.

“I might be in love with her.” Oikawa hands the card back to Hajime.

“Too bad, she’s taken.”

“Oh, does that change the equation?”

He’s teasing, but Hajime suddenly feels a little unwell, something ragged plucking at his heart as he says, “Yes, Shittykawa, and there are lots of girls so it doesn’t have to be Mari.” An alertness comes into Oikawa’s eyes, replacing the lazy joy that always comes with adulation and being everyone’s center of gravity. He opens his mouth, but Hajime says, “Look, I gotta find Mr. Yamada and give him this card—then we can go. The party’s starting to wind down.” 

The room is thinning out, which means even as a director Hajime’s allowed to leave. Oikawa, to his credit, nods his head and waves him off. There’s something else in his expression, but Hajime doesn’t want to deconstruct it.

They leave thirty minutes later, which isn’t too bad: several people demand they stay, so they can hear more from Oikawa, and because Hajime is not nearly drunk enough. “I’ve had plenty,” he says, which is only half a lie. He allows Oikawa to take selfies with anyone who wants them, asks them to please not post them on Instagram if at all possible, and finally staggers out the door dreading what might happen next. _Because we’ve never talked about it. Because I still don’t know what I’d call this. Because I promised, and now we’re here, and I don’t know what comes after._

_I guess, like you, I didn’t want to think about what comes after._

He’s bracing himself for an argument as they step onto the subway line; in the six stops it’ll take them to get home, Oikawa has plenty of room to burst into hysterics or demand an explanation, or say a few cutting words that will wreck their careful equilibrium. Hajime stares at the little screen above the subway doors playing looping commercials for Aeon, Pocky, and the proper train etiquette, wondering how to gently shift the conversation to how, well, _they should probably think about where this is going_. But Oikawa’s quiet, scrolling through images on his phone: pictures he’d taken at the party. Hajime tries not to notice how he’s in too many of them.

“You’re really amazing, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa murmurs.

“What?!” When he’s shocked he sounds mad. He knows, but he can’t help it.

“You’re such a boss at work. Everyone loves you. Everyone admires you, says you’re super dependable and encouraging and amazing at your job. I guess that’s my Seijou vice-captain for you.” Oikawa grins. “Though I think some of the junior developers are scared of you….they alluded to something called the _Whiteboard Incident?_ ”

“I didn’t _actually_ break it with my fist,” Hajime grumbles. “They’re exaggerating.” 

Oikawa laughs. “But honestly, it surprised me…there’s a lot about your life I don’t know. It made me kinda sad, how much I missed. I can’t believe it took me this long to visit your office.”

“We don’t have parties that often, since our Finance team is pretty careful with budgeting. And you weren’t always around.” Hajime feels guilty, suddenly; outside of his team, his family, and his frothing sea of admirers, Oikawa hasn’t been able to build a support network, not the way Hajime and all their other friends have.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You can come to the next one,” Hajime offers, reactively. It sounds, to him, much more like a promise than an invitation. Which makes it much more risky. What will it mean if Oikawa takes it? What will people think if—he’s not a temporary guest? 

“I’d like that,” Oikawa says, closing his eyes as he leans against Hajime. The subway car is mostly empty. There’s a granny with a bag of vegetables across from them, head tipping forward as she dozes, and two students engrossed in their respective handhelds. “I still need to get you that promotion.”

“Worry about yourself, kid.” Hajime threads his fingers into the hair at Oikawa’s nape, heart swelling until it hurts, until he’s surprised he doesn’t combust from all these emotions: how grateful he is, how much more there suddenly is to lose.

On the walk home from the subway station Oikawa says, without warning, “Iwa-chan. You don’t mind that I’m here?”

“No,” he answers, because it’s easier than admitting how much he likes it. How it’s almost perfect. “I made a promise, didn’t I?”

There’s a pause in which Oikawa lifts his face, scrutinizing the stars above them. He turns to Hajime and sticks his tongue out. “Yeah. You did. Sucker.”

#

It’s because they don’t fight, probably, that after work next Monday—to the distressing chorus of “Bye, Iwa-chan!”—he comes home to an apartment without any lights on. There’s a covered pot on the stove; it’s full of black beans and meat stew. In the bedroom the futon is rolled up. On the windowsill, Yam’s glossy green leaves are still bathed in the last of the sunlight, but Potato is conspicuously missing. There’s a card on the living room table. Hajime tries not to panic as he opens it.

His spare key is tucked inside, the one with the ramen-bowl keychain, that he’d pressed into Oikawa’s hands five weeks ago, and a note: _Thanks for everything! I’m all good so I’m going back home. XOXO. P.S. I’m going on a digital cleanse so do not try to contact me for a while!_

“Fuck,” Hajime says, the word startling in the space of the room, which suddenly seems far too large for one person. Oikawa really has to think of everything, doesn’t he? Hajime rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, exhausted beyond measure. _It’s a good thing_ , he reminds himself. Oikawa wouldn’t leave unless he was all right. Didn’t this work out the way Hajime planned?

He tries calling once, anyway, in case Oikawa’s bluffing, or testing him. The message goes to voicemail. “Hey,” he starts, then he can’t think for a long time of what he actually wants to say. “Thanks for dinner. I’m glad you’re, um, finally okay. Call me when you’re done with your digital cleanse, all right?” He hopes his voice doesn’t betray the tears running freely down his face, like he’s in some kind of poorly directed drama. When he hangs up he decides to add, via text, _Next time say goodbye in person, asshole._

#

A week passes. Hajime hates social media but Oikawa has updated neither his Instagram nor his Twitter, and his fans are clearly starting to feel the deprivation: _Oikawa-sama! Where are you?? >.<_

Hajime’s embarrassed to be asking the same question. He deletes both apps and decides that, as before, Oikawa will contact him when he wants to. He keeps startling awake in the middle of the night, and it takes forever to fall asleep because he feels cold and annoyed. He frowns at the mirror for a few seconds each morning, trying to decipher something in his own expression. Hajime’s lived for so long with this heartache that it’s hard to extricate from other feelings, and tiring to inspect. It’s not like he thought Oikawa would stay. He didn’t really _want_ him to. That would’ve been too complicated, too dangerous. 

Once he rearranges his logic, it’s simple: this is Oikawa’s chance at a second life, at a different kind of happiness, post-volleyball. Hajime wouldn’t dare take it away from him, doesn’t want to suggest otherwise. Besides, maybe it’s time for him to think differently. This only happened because back in middle school, a young Oikawa wanted to give his future self the space to be temporarily weak. But his resilience, nurtured over years of hard work and bitter disappointment, has risen to the fore. Oikawa is the strongest person Hajime knows; if he let Hajime worry over him, it was only because retirement was an extreme circumstance.

That, or—Hajime’s full of shit.

“You look like crap,” Mari whispers to him on Friday, handing him his second coffee in between meetings. “I didn’t want to mention it, but Sadamoto-kun from Marketing asked me tearfully if you were upset about the most recent campaign, so I figured it was worth telling you.”

Hajime frowns. The campaign wasn’t a roaring success, but it had increased the user pipeline. He makes a mental note to reassure Sadamoto-kun that his ad-buying skills are fine, but maybe he needs to press Design for better graphics. 

Mari snaps her fingers in his face, a ballsy move that makes the juniors next to them flinch in terror. “You’re _scowling_.”

“Sorry,” Hajime answers. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

“Oh,” Mari says. Hajime is mortified to see her _get it_. Innocently, she adds, “How’s Tooru-kun?”

He’s briefly shocked at her casual use of that name, but recovers. “He’s fine.”

Her eyes narrow. “He hasn’t updated his Instagram in a while.”

“Mari, you don’t even _use_ Instagram.”

“I got one for him! Look, Iwaizumi-san, it’s none of my business. I know it’s complicated…but he’s retired now, and at the office party he seemed really happy.”

“I don’t know what you—”

“I’m saying, maybe the rules of the game have shifted, and you’re just afraid to learn them?”

He glowers at her. Mari lives with her high school sweetheart, the kouhai who became assistant manager for the basketball team her junior year.Natsuki is a pastry chef in an upscale bakery in Shimokitazawa, and the office is always thrilled to be a receptacle for her leftovers. It took two years of them closely working together before Mari admitted to Hajime that she and Natsuki weren’t simply roommates; very few people at work know. It’s not easy, but Hajime envies her surety. She once had him over for dinner. While scraping tofu into the hotpot Natsuki said, “This might embarrass you, Iwaizumi-san, but Mari kept saying she wanted me to meet her hunky boss.” The two women had laughed, and he didn’t miss how their hands were entwined for most of dinner. Hajime remembers departing from their cozy apartment, feeling warm all over, and not just from the soup. 

This memory is followed by another: of Oikawa turning around in that hideous magenta apron to ask him how he wanted his eggs done. Saying _sunny side up_ was so effortless, and made him so happy. 

Maybe that’s why he’s never been able to answer that question from so long ago: _what do you want, Iwa-chan?_

“Your job is not to psychoanalyze your director,” Hajime mutters.

“That is _absolutely_ my job,” Mari says, but her tone loses its cunning when she touches his arm to add, “You’re so good at enduring everything, boss. But I don’t think you always _need_ to.” When he opens his mouth to reply Mari checks her watch and fake-gasps. “Your next meeting’s starting.” 

“You’re dangerous,” he says, feeling more shaken than he should be, striding into the conference room with what feels like a hole blown open in his chest.

#

He shouldn’t have let it get this far. He remembers how the feeling had grown, relentlessly, season over season. At ten years old he’d found the words for it, a strange comfort in how irrevocable it was: _I’m in love with Tooru._ That the feelings had a name provided little relief; he sat up, looked at Oikawa sleeping on the grass next to him, a volleyball tucked up under his armpit. The summer air was thick with the buzz of cicadas. Simply standing still made them sweaty after an hour. There was nothing different, because some part of Hajime had always felt this way. At ease, next to Oikawa, then bothered by it. He understood that Oikawa also cared a lot about him. They wouldn’t hang out together so much otherwise. But he knew there was something dangerous about this: something _not acceptable_ , especially not for someone like Oikawa, who was probably going to have some dazzling, shining future—not that he needed to know that, his ego was already so inflated.

It made no sense, but that was how things were. Hajime knelt over him, frowning at his face: what was there to like about it? Sure, Oikawa was pretty like a girl, but he patently _wasn’t_ a girl. This was going to be a problem.

That week their coach had told Oikawa that his form had vastly improved, his serve was getting impressive. Oikawa had bounced all the way home. At the end of their block, before entering his house, he’d said, “I really, really love volleyball, Iwa-chan. I can’t wait to play in middle school.”

At thirteen Hajime’s attraction took a turn for the dangerous, manifesting in dreams that Hajime soldiered through, hating himself, hating everything it meant. His body ached as it stretched out, and his heart ached along with it. But it wasn’t difficult to keep things as they always were; it wasn’t difficult to pretend. Oikawa made it easy, draping all over him like always, being annoying and extremely punchable. Hajime eventually got used to the new hard lines in Oikawa’s body, the unbearable softness of his skin; stopped letting it get to him every time they touched, which was frequent enough.

Hajime didn’t know if Oikawa _knew_. He didn’t know what Oikawa knowing would even mean. They never talked about it. It didn’t seem possible to. 

At fifteen, Oikawa had cried over losing to Ushijima again. Hajime sat next to him on his bed, rubbing a hand over his back, easing the anxious knots in his shoulders.

“I’m going to beat him one day,” Oikawa seethed.

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to beat _everyone_ one day.”

“You sound like an RPG villain, you know that?”

“Iwa-chan! I sound like a _shounen hero_ , excuse you!” He rubbed his eyes, rubbed his nose, and glared at Hajime.

Hajime poked his cheek with a thumb. “There, see? That bratty face is more like the whiny Trashkawa I know.”

“No! Let me be upset!” He sobbed again, fresh angry tears.

“Sure,” Hajime said, droll. “But you _will_ beat him one day. And everyone else, too.”

Oikawa’s mouth dropped open. At Hajime’s warning glower, he shut it with a snap—then threw his arms around Hajime’s neck with such force that they tumbled backwards onto his bed. 

“ _Get off me!_ ” Hajime’s heart was ricocheting in his chest, a full-body blush making him hot everywhere, _this wasn’t the time to get excited_ , it was never going to be the time. Oikawa, as usual, ignored him and got snot on his shirt; it was a damnable mystery _why_ he was so in love with him. When Oikawa did not budge, despite threats and at least two attempts to shove him off, he settled his hands: one on Oikawa’s scalp, the other on the small of his back, and lay there, face turned to the spring sunlight streaming through the window, wondering how long they’d be together. Why even forever didn’t seem enough.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa murmured. He turned his head to the side so Hajime could hear him more clearly. “Even if that’s true, I’ll have to stop someday.”

“What the hell? Stop being so fucking random!”

“I’m saying! We can’t play volleyball forever.” His voice was thick with misery, even more than it had been at their loss. Hajime was suddenly terrible afraid. “Even pros have to retire eventually. I hate it. I don’t want to do anything else, so I’m going to keep choosing this, but I know it'll all end one day.”

“That’s…that’s so far away,” Hajime said. “We’re not even in high school yet. We have so many matches left to go, Oikawa.” That they’d play together had been an inevitability then, clear as sunlight, certain as the determination in Oikawa’s eyes every time he stepped up to serve. Hajime, at fifteen, was not sure he’d play forever, but he knew he would for the next few years, and that seemed long enough to plan for. When Oikawa didn’t say anything Hajime sat up and held his face. “Hey. Don’t think about that stuff yet. Don’t worry about unnecessary things.”

Oikawa shook his head. It wasn’t clear if he meant _no_ or _I can’t help it_. 

“Well, if you’re going to keep worrying, what am I supposed to do, then?” Hajime was getting angry, which always happened when Oikawa was _actually_ crying and not fake-crying. “Argh. Come on—you’re ruining my shirt.” He rubbed Oikawa’s tears off with his knuckles, ignoring the smooth feel of his cheek, the look of surprise that became a laugh, finally.

“You’re comforting in the weirdest way, Iwa-chan.”

“Shut up. Who wants to comfort you.”

“When…” Oikawa trailing off was maybe the most incongruous thing that had ever happened in Hajime’s life. Shit. Whatever he was going to say next would be real. Hajime waited, nerves jumping. “When that time comes, and I can’t play anymore—do you think I could. Could I stay with you?”

Hajime frowned at him. _Stop overthinking everything_ , he wanted to say. They were going to Aoba Johsai together that fall, and they would defeat Ushijima there, which was as far into the future as Hajime ever considered. The idea of an adult Oikawa coming to stay with the Iwaizumis when his own house was right next door seemed bizarre, until he considered—maybe they wouldn’t live in this town forever. Especially not if they were going to play pro. Maybe he’d have his own place. Maybe he’d have a wife by then, or a kid! God. Maybe Oikawa would, too, or maybe he’d have to wait until this was all over. It all seemed so—open-ended. 

_Maybe I won’t be in love with him anymore_ , Hajime thought, looking at Oikawa’s face: those eyes, puffy with tears; that smile, suddenly a little unsure. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that no matter what happened, _this_ at least wouldn’t change. Hajime knocked their foreheads together: gently, completely different than the way he normally did, hard enough to bruise them both. “I don’t know why you’d want that, but of course you can, dumbass. Of course. You don’t need to ask.”

“I wanted to ask. I knew you wouldn’t say no, but I wanted to.” Oikawa held up his pinky, all cried out and weirdly shy, and if Hajime was braver he might have kissed him then. (That happened five years later, after _another_ Ushijima match. Oikawa was quiet, strangely docile, trembling as they kissed in the dark. Hajime’s hands shook so much, he kept having to touch Oikawa to keep them still.) “You promise, right?”

Hajime crooked his own pinky, threaded it with Oikawa’s. “You better never ask me to do anything this embarrassing ever again.”

#

Hajime doesn’t have a plan, but he takes the subway to Roppongi on Saturday morning anyway. The receptionist at the fancy apartment remembers him, thankfully—“Oh, Iwaizumi-sama. Oikawa-sama’s friend, right?”—but she says he isn’t home at the moment. Hajime wants to ask her whether he’s _been_ home, but she probably can’t disclose. He thanks her, unsure whether he’s more worried or irritated. In the end, neither feeling completely wins out, and he gets enraged instead. He walks through the neighborhood trying to blow off steam, wondering why there isn’t an app for digitally punching someone. He ends up in some beautiful tree-lined park, and only gets more annoyed at how fancy this neighborhood is.

He’s still trying to determine what exactly he’s angry about when he hears someone _whining_ , in a sugary tone that is altogether too familiar: “You have to bend your _knees_ —lower than that—lower—okay, now we’re talking!”

He turns his head. There’s a man surrounded by a cluster of brats that mostly reach his waist. The admiring look on their faces tempered only by their straining grimaces, as their weak legs struggle with a squat.

“Five seconds! Four! Three!”

“Coach,” one of the kids says; at the word something burbles in Hajime’s stomach, a _rightness_ wrapped in a promise, the unbearable residue of hope. 

“One! Okay, lunges next. What is it, Kenta-kun?”

The boy named Kenta points. Oikawa turns, his look of annoyance morphing into astonishment—then he’s turning red all over, which is so endearing Hajime can’t help but smile and shake his head.

“Don’t go _heh_ at me, Iwa-chan! I know you’re going _heh_ even if I can’t hear you!”

By now none of the kids are pretending to do their lunges; they’re looking from Hajime to Oikawa, fascinated at this unseemly side of their coach. Hajime strides over and says “Do your lunges.” The children immediately snap to attention, puffing as they try to follow the thread of the conversation.

“God, why do people always listen to you more than they listen to me?”

“Because I’m not annoying to listen to.”

It’s easy, comfortable, to slip into squabbling, so much that Hajime would rather do it than almost anything else; he tucks his hands into his pockets and watches Oikawa, tries to decipher the myriad emotions rolling over his best friend's face. Oikawa looks at the kids around them in a studious effort not to meet Hajime’s eyes. Hajime doesn’t want to force the issue, but he doesn’t think he can leave without reaching some kind of conclusion. Whether it will end in a punch-out or a makeout is anyone’s guess—but that’s par for the course with them. 

“I’m going to wait here,” Hajime says, slowly. “And you can take as long as you need to, but if you try to run away, I _will_ chase you.”

“I won’t run,” Oikawa mumbles, chastened, looking much more childish than the pre-teens around him, now gasping as they lunge.

“Okay. Then I’m gonna finish my walk.” 

He doesn’t look back as he stalks away. He finishes two loops around the park, trying to calm down, do some of that meditation Mari’s always on about. 

_What do you want, Iwa-chan?_

Is it that he doesn’t know, or that he won’t tell himself? He winds up on a bench, on the far side of the covered court where the kids are practicing bouncing volleyballs on their arms. A lifetime ago he’d been one such kid, the promise of everything still completely unknowable, and therefore limitless: how a good spike could seize the world, how an amazing dig could make one a literal superhero. How the team had held him together, a single unit, a family composed of shared regrets and joys. He should call Makki, see how his wife and daughter are doing. He should help Mattsun plan the next reunion. He should get the college team back together for some karaoke.

He should figure out, as much as he’s afraid to, what _this_ is. Oikawa means too much to him not to.

Oikawa high-fives all the kids, individually, as they leave. “Thanks, Coach!” Kenta calls out. “See you next week!” The adulation on his face is searing, and Hajime feels almost embarrassed, watching it. Oikawa, who has maybe never felt embarrassment in his life, strikes a pose.

He looks somewhat _less_ sparkly when he turns to Hajime, cracking his knuckles as he settles on the bench. It’s a subtle tell, and Hajime feels a little better about his own sweaty palms because of it. He doesn’t feel like dragging this out, so he starts with, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself too much. I’ve been avoiding everyone.”

That’s true, at least. “I don’t think that’s something you’d do if you were really okay.”

Oikawa flinches. “I’m fine! Honest. I’m so much better than I was right after…retiring. It’s just—I was starting to get too comfortable. I know you need your own space, and I was taking up a lot of it.”

“You’re not an inconvenience to me,” Hajime says, shifting so he can watch Oikawa’s face. “And I hope I never said anything that made you feel like you had to leave.”

Oikawa’s quiet for a long time. When he looks at Hajime, its with a smile of resignation, his eyes soft. “You didn’t. I wanted to. I had to. I told you, you already do everything for me. And I do feel better now…like I can stand on my own two feet. I couldn’t have said that six weeks ago. You kept your promise beautifully.”

“So why—”

“You told me once that you wanted me to keep playing volleyball. And you wanted to keep being my best friend. I know you never lie, and I thought it would be real shitty of me if I couldn’t keep doing at least one of those things.”

It’s difficult to breathe, suddenly; it’s difficult to listen to Oikawa’s voice.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa continues, closing his eyes, a tear from each dripping down his cheeks. He keeps smiling. “Ugh! Sorry! I told myself I wasn’t gonna cry. Look, I’ve made you hold up your life this long. You’ve lent me so much of your strength. It’s over now, so—you should do whatever _you_ want to do. I’m going to be all right.” Hajime’s hand is pulled to Oikawa’s cheek, a motion as inevitable as the way his heart is breaking. He brushes away the tears with his thumb, and Oikawa starts crying harder. “Don’t _do_ that!”

“What?” Hajime is stung, frozen in place.

“C-comforting me, and being so…always saying yes to me. Always going along with it.” He’s speaking softly now, his words hard to make out. “This whole time I could only bear it ending because I knew you’d be there at the end of the day. And I’m grateful, Iwa-chan. You’ve been so patient. But I can’t _do this anymore_.” 

“I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“See! It’s like this again!” Oikawa laughs, entirely without humor. “I mean that I can’t _not want more_. I broke our rules.”

“There aren’t—there _were no rules to this._ ” Hajime pulls Oikawa into his embrace, feels the tremors rattling his best friend’s body. It’s awful and sobering to think that maybe _he’s_ causing some of it, that it’s not exclusively grief over the game anymore. He holds him tightly, desperate to make him feel better. “And that’s stupid. Everything you’re saying is stupid. That’s not how I feel, at all.”

“Well, I’m sorry for not being able to read your mind, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa’s voice is small, muffled by his shoulder. “You’ve never asked me to leave. But you’ve also never asked me to stay.”

It comes clear in an instant: how all the openings he left for things to change haven’t changed things at all; how his honesty and hesitation have gotten them into this mess. How there’ll never be someone else for him, so when Oikawa finally gives him the refusal he’s been holding his breath for, he can’t accept it. Until now, Oikawa _has_ always chosen this. Hajime’s the one who never wants to clear things up. But leaving it unspoken won’t work anymore. Not when he knows exactly what’s true, has known almost as long as he’s been alive: “I love you,” he says, so fiercely he surprises himself. “I’ve never believed it’s a good thing because I want you to have everything, and I know I’m not that.” Oikawa stiffens against him, gearing up to argue, but Hajime just tightens his grip. “I didn’t want to trust myself about it. I figured it would be easier if I let you decide. If I made sure there was always a way out for you. But that was me being selfish.” 

“You aren’t—”

“I still half want you to say no,” Hajime keeps going. “I want you to say you don’t want this. But I’m not sure my heart can take it. I meant it, all those years ago when I said you’re the most important thing to me. Sorry I’m a coward.” He’s always teased Oikawa for being a crybaby but he knows he’s just as bad, and he’s lucky the team never gave him crap about it. “I want you to stay, Tooru. Stay with me.”

Oikawa pushes against his shoulders until Hajime relents and lets him pull away slightly. “ _Okay_ ,” Oikawa says, eyes brimming as he leans in for a kiss, that sweet and rolling tenderness: everything Hajime’s ever wanted, and been so afraid to ask for, given freely. “Okay, I think I can do that.”

Hajime relaxes for maybe the first time that whole week, a full-body unspooling that has him gathering Oikawa’s face in his palms so he can kiss him again. “Come home with me, Tooru.”

“Hang on,” Oikawa says, lifting a hand to stop him. For a moment Hajime falters, but then he sees Oikawa’s eyes, wide and blank in the way they sometimes are when his brain combusts. “Iwa-chan. Did you just call me…” 

Shit. “Uh, that’s—”

“You told me we couldn’t call each other by our first names anymore in first grade!”

“I know I did! Forget what I just said!”

“Hajime,” Oikawa tries. Hajime goes rigid. He’s so flushed, it’s impossible blood isn’t shooting out of his face. Oikawa shakes his head. “I don’t know, I’m somehow attached to Iwa-chan.” Before Hajime can retort, Oikawa cuddles him close, sinking into him, pressing their tear-stained cheeks together. “In more ways than one, I guess.”

#

“So like. Since when?”

“I don’t know. Elementary school or something. No need to be so smug about it.”

“Elemen—do you _know_ what you’ve put me through this whole fucking time? I was so ready to give up on you!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But you never said anything either.”Their fingers have been twined since leaving the subway, all through the walk up to Hajime’s flat. He’s not sure who’s more afraid of letting go. 

“That’s because you were being so goddamn confusing! Overthinking is _my_ job, Iwa-chan.”

“I only have that problem when it comes to you.” 

“Wow, that makes me feel so special.”

“You are special.”

“Stop that.”

“You drive me crazy.”

“Iwa-chan!”

He pauses at the door, still holding Tooru’s hand. “We’re home,” he says, still not quite believing it.

Tooru squeezes their fingers together. “Welcome home.”

#

Tooru rents out the place in Roppongi. Hajime figures the rental income will help, in addition to the coaching gig Tooru secured at the snazzy Meguro junior high school—and the celebrity endorsement requests that continue to pour in. He keeps coaching the kids team for free on weekends. Potato is reunited with Yam on the windowsill. Hajime starts looking for a larger apartment: nothing too fancy, but Tooru wants more plants, and the living room has to be big enough for two yoga mats. They disagree on every piece of furniture in the catalogs Tooru has started collecting. They argue about getting a dog. An annoying song gets stuck in Hajime’s head; it takes him days to realize that it’s the theme from Superstar Shoujo Circle, which is back with its latest season.

These days, when Tooru watches it, Hajime doesn’t feign disinterest. Instead he rests his head on Tooru’s lap and decides to comment on how hot the dance instructor is, which earns him a lot of jealous kisses. Tooru’s a horrible person who gets his shirt off before saying that they have to pause for a bit because he wants to see who wins the cover song battle round.

At the end of the day he falls asleep with his arms around his best friend and the only person he’s ever loved, faced buried in the curve of his shoulder; in the morning Tooru’s usually shifted and curled into him, tucking his head under Hajime’s chin, scrunched up despite their height difference. The exception is those lucky days when Tooru’s inspired and already in the kitchen, making some very fluffy pancakes. Hajime still refuses to call him his wife, with the horrible consequence that now _Tooru_ calls him “my waifu Iwa-chan,” in exactly the dulcet tone he hates. 

Hajime is a rotten hypocrite because he already has the rings and is simply freaking out about when, and how, to say it—that, maybe, sometime, if Tooru wants, they can enter the family registry. First, he has to ask Auntie and Uncle if it’s all right. He’ll do it on their next trip home. 

They decide to have a few people over for a housewarming party at their new place: two of Tooru’s teammates, including that attractive libero that makes Hajime a little nervous, which Tooru won’t stop teasing him about; Makki and his wife and their daughter; Mattsun and his partner. Mari and Natsuki, who’ll bring a dulce de leche cake. Tooru muses for days about cooking something fancy, but in the end, they decide on old-fashioned nabe. It’s nearly winter, so something warm seems appropriate; and just because it’s familiar, doesn’t mean it’s any less special.

#

_I did not expect to survive,  
_ _earth suppressing me. I didn't expect  
_ _to waken again, to feel  
_ _in damp earth my body  
_ _able to respond again, remembering  
_ _after so long how to open again  
_ _in the cold light  
_ _of earliest spring--_

 _afraid, yes, but among you again  
_ _crying yes risk joy_

_\- Snowdrops, Louise Glück_

**Author's Note:**

> After [Almost a Stranger](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22501042) I thought I was done with long ship manifestos for this pair. I wanted to write the angsty post-retirement story, but of course it ballooned again because they make everything so complicated. There is exactly one more IwaOi I'd like to write after this; I am desperately crossing my fingers it'll turn out more fun (but who am I kidding, pining is exactly what makes this couple go).
> 
> I actually do kinda ship Makki/Mattsun, but in the fiction of this particular story that just didn't seem like something that would happen.
> 
> With thanks to strikinglight for bearing with me as I expired under the weight of writing all these embarrassing lines.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I've been writing fic for a long time, but comments continue to be extremely appreciated. :>


End file.
